This is truly crazy. Thanks so much, guys!

Dear beloved followers,

Since beginning this blog in January, I have had my doubts–about continuing this blog, about writing, about everything. But seeing how far my words have reached amazes me. So I would like to thank you.

 

Thank you

¡Gracias!

Merci!

धन्यवाद , ಧನ್ಯವಾದಗಳು ,  நன்றி !!!

Danke!

Salamat!

                  ! תודה לך

Go raibh maith agaibh!

ขอบใจจ่ะ

Obrigada!

Спасибо!

ありがとうございます!

                  ! آپ کا شکریہ

 

All the viewers by country, since beginning 'Cafuné' in January.

All the viewers by country, since beginning ‘Cafuné’ in January.

This is Not a Super Depressing Parental Divorce Post. Well, actually…

I wrote part of this coming back from Texas two days ago.


Tuesday Evening, July 29th, 2014. Texas. 

I wish I could say I felt some great pain when my parents finalized their divorce early this week. But honestly, I feel nothing. I don’t. Feel. Anything. This isn’t a change. This is a pebble a kid threw into a great big lake. There are ripples, certainly, but does this pebble graze the fish? Does it wound the frog? No. It settles amongst the millions of other pebbles in that vast lake that is my life.

Perhaps I should reminisce about the time my parents were happy—the times they kissed and held hands and talked late into the night before going to bed. I do not remember this. I have never known a time my parents loved each other, or showed affection. My oldest memory is a fight. I never heard my mom say she had ever loved my dad until I was 17. I first saw their wedding photos six months ago. The album was nestled in between the gardening handbook and a bird index.

Thursday, 2 AM, July 31st, 2014. Indiana.

No. When I said I felt nothing, it wasn’t quite true. I was numb. I was awaiting the blow. But when Mom. Nate and I got home, we discovered that the papers were incomplete; therefore it isn’t finalized. They are the most ridiculous ‘married couple’ I’ve ever known. And the odd thing is that I had prepared for an obstacle, and I found myself relieved when it appeared. I do not want this to happen. I do not want this change. A part of me wants it to go on as before; the fights and the insults that hide the resentment and hurt. Perhaps I’m a sadomasochist…

When I was in middle school, my mother got me What A Girl Wants (VHS of course, because DVDs weren’t nearly as popular). In case you don’t know what it’s about:

Yeah, basically it’s the best teen movie ever.

I would watch this movie all the time, and crying, I’d think, “Why her and not me? Why does she get the happy ending? Where are my perfectly-in-love parents?” I mean, I would have loved the sexy British hunk, but that was not the priority when I was twelve.

Now, almost fourteen years after they separated, I still feel a twinge.

“Finally, I’m Ethnic!” Or, Culture Sharing

So today was a hazardous day at best. At worst utter shit. But there is always a sunrise on a cloudy day, and my sunrise was in the form of a fabulous kurti that I bought online. What, might you ask, is a mainline, upperclass white female doing with traditional Indian garb?

I’m embracing the beautiful.

You see, Fellow Readers of This Wondrous Blog, your monarch has often felt that American fashion is limiting, especially for the young adults. Frankly, it’s a bit of a bore-fest. I mean, come on–how many ways can you wear skinny jeans and tight tanks? Yawns galore. And in this wandering mind of your overlord was a love of all things foreign and unique. I’ve always admired different cultures, ethnicities, and nationalities because they seem so exotic, so full of life. And I’ve often wanted to show appreciation and respect, though I am only an outsider. I want to grow an afro (unlikely, but still) and wear a hijab and attend an Indian festival. I want to go into a synagogue.

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And yet I am frightened. You aren’t supposed to act outside your established identity–a white person can’t “act black” or “ghetto,” a religious person can’t have doubts, a man can’t possess feminine sensibilities–because then you are a traitor to your identity. 

I was also afraid of what they might say if I did some of those things. “She’s not one of us. She doesn’t share our way of life. She just does it for the material.” 

And they would have a point.

But in the end, I don’t see such a difference. When I saw an old woman in a casual brown saree at my town’s annual festival, I thought, “That is beauty. I want to be that beauty.” I wanted to wear a saree and a choli. I want to stick a bindi on my forehead and feel the beauty that was the old woman.

Today I did. Or I would have, if not for the sweat stains and lack of a dupatta and traditional pants. Maybe next time.

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Related reads:

Can a white woman wear a sari or salwar kameez? The fine art of culture sharing

The Perils of Dragon Real Estate

It has always amazed Dovaline how senseless humans are about her kind. Yes, we all know that dragons are ferocious creatures that are a menace to everything, yada yada ya. Yes, they breathe fire. Yes, they can fly. Yes, they can eat people—but who cannot?

Dovaline tried to explain this to a banker over the phone last Tuesday.

“So,” he said. “Do you…you know…?”

“Pardon?”

“Fire people?”

Dovaline paused. “I do not have that authority in my job—”

“No, I meant set people on fire. God.”

“Oh,” she harrumphed. “That’s quite personal. I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Ma’am, it is my business.”

“No, it’s not. But if you wait twenty minutes for me to fly over there, I can make it your business.”

The man hung up, fearing she’d roast him like a hog after that. Which she did. No one misses bankers.

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Wishes

I wish I could say
almost babies live special kinda lives
for awhile
the sun ain’t blowin’ up, she’s just mad
My mama will live forever
and my daddy will live for her
and my brother will just live
Wish it were true
that Jesus, God, and my lover loved me
victims were glorified for surviving
and the ‘glorified’ were more ashamed.
Wish I was not ashamed–
Swim against the fish that bolt from the jaws of conservatism only to
find themselves in the belly of a bigger fish.
Cry in front of a friend because my mouth is not made for words but puddles of passion.
Say I deserve better than a love triangle
between me him and Mary-Jane.
Say I am sorry and I am on my own.
Perhaps these dreams are for another day.